


Rebuilding

by bomberqueen17



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bitches Get Shit Done, F/F, Porn With Plot, bookverse-compliant, movieverse-compliant, not so much with LaCE-compliant, written in 2005
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 09:34:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1505522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bomberqueen17/pseuds/bomberqueen17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wrote this in 2005 and don't remember exactly why; it was part of a set I entitled Porn With Plot, perhaps because I can't seem to write anything brief, and before I can get characters to bone there always has to be about twenty pages of political scheming.<br/>It is not in any way compliant with Tolkien's well-expressed views on sexuality. But I figured, people slash male characters all over the place; these two women were well-positioned to have the same done to them. </p>
<p>Lothiriel exists in LotR as a mere name in a genealogical table-- the youngest child, and only daughter, of Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, she gets married to Eomer early in the First Age and provides him with at least one son. I wrote a great deal about her when I was new to the fandom. </p>
<p>This is my idea of what she and Eowyn, similar to her in age (four years older) would have gotten up to after the fall of Sauron, before the menfolk got back from their last foray into contested lands.</p>
<p>This may be a bit slow-paced; I didn't do any editing, so this is me in all my early-years, unedited glory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rebuilding

**Author's Note:**

> I was moved to hunt this down by the revelation that there's so very little femmeslash on AO3. Well, I'm not helping overall, with my enormous slash opuses, but here's a little bit to balance it out.

 

 

 

 

"Mother," Lothíriel said quietly, reaching out and taking her mother's hand. Míriel came to herself with a jolt, and looked at her daughter. "Look at the gate."

Míriel opened the window-shade of the carriage and looked out, and made no sound but squeezed Lothíriel's hand tightly. Lothíriel, looking out the opened window on her side, had not taken her eyes off the ruined gate of Minas Tirith. The two women said nothing, but their hands remained entwined until they had reached their house on the sixth circle. They didn't let go to get out of the carriage, or during the long walk up the city, but clung to one another in mute, dignified horror, seeing the devastation the recent siege had wrought upon the city.

The city house of the Lords of Dol Amroth was undamaged save for one broken window. Lothíriel let go of her mother's hand as Míriel opened the house door, and they separated to inspect the house. The broken window had been neatly boarded over and the debris cleaned away: the house was occupied, after all. Imrahil, Erchirion, and Amrothos were all away with the new King and his armies, in Ithilien as the latest news said, but Elphir was here, nursing the arm broken upon the Pelennor, and helping his cousin Faramir cope with the abrupt responsibilities of stewardship. So he had told his mother in the dispatches to Belfalas, and such was the reason Míriel and her daughter were here. Profound upheaval such as this was best faced with as much family as one could muster. 

Elphir was delighted to see them, and they made much of him, of his sling and his bandages and his indisputable courage. He was hard at work in the White Tower, but Faramir was not with him. "No," he said. "It is mid-day, and Faramir often goes to the Houses of Healing to take his meal there."

"Is he not recovered from his injury?" Míriel asked, concern creasing her features.

"No," Elphir said. "Well, he is nearly healed. But he returns to the Houses to give heart to those still there."

Lothíriel nodded. That sounded like Faramir.

"Especially one," Elphir went on, sounding amused. His mother and sister exchanged glances: this sounded like gossip. "A woman-warrior of the Rohirrim."

"Oh," Míriel said. "How lovely. Lothíriel, why don't you go and meet them there? I have a few things I want to discuss with Elphir."

Lothíriel regarded her mother for a moment before nodding. "All right," she said. "I will stay there until you come for me, or until dinner."

She went quickly to the Houses, unescorted, flitting through the well-known and familiar byways. Up here the damage was less bad, and the debris had been cleared. She was met at the door by an older woman who squinted at her and cocked her head, evidently thinking she looked familiar.

"I am Lothíriel of Dol Amroth," she said politely. "I have come to see if my cousin Faramir is here."

"Ahh," the old woman said, "I thought you might be Imrahil's daughter. Your cousin is here, in the garden."

"I know the way," Lothíriel said. "I won't distract you from your duties."

"Very well then," the woman said, gesturing down the hall toward the doorway to the garden. Lothíriel nodded politely to her and went out into the garden.

The garden was beautiful, lit by the slanting afternoon sun in the new leaves. Lothíriel walked quietly along the perimeter of the garden, seeing the new growth of flowers and herbs in the beds of the garden, looking at the buds on the flowering trees, and listening to the birds. After a little while she heard voices, speaking quietly, and through the trees she could see the glint of the sun in a woman's loose blond hair as the breeze stirred it.

The woman was standing with her back to Lothíriel, a tall slender woman dressed in white. Faramir was standing quite close to her, his head bowed a little so his face was closer to hers, and his face was almost unrecognizably softened by a smile. He looked happy, as Lothíriel remembered him as a child. She stood still a moment, unaccountably moved by Faramir's expression. The woman ducked her head shyly, and then looked up into his face, and he laughed softly, raised his hand to her neck, and kissed her mouth. They stood unmoving for a moment, their faces pressed together, and Lothíriel felt suddenly guilty for her intrusion.

The pair separated, Faramir's arm trailing around the woman's waist, and the woman leaned her head against his shoulder. "Éowyn," Faramir said audibly, but the rest of his words were lost in a murmur into her hair.

Lothíriel found a stick and stepped on it. It broke with a very quiet snap, but it was enough that Faramir's head bobbed up attentively, looking immediately in her direction. She knew he couldn't recognize her, so she stepped forward. "Faramir," she called, and his face lit up with pleasure. He released the woman's waist and ran toward her, and Lothíriel closed the rest of the distance to embrace him.

"Oh," she said, "I don't know where you're hurt." She embraced him a little gingerly. "Oh Faramir. I was so worried about you."

He returned her embrace with far more strength than she had anticipated. "Lothíriel," he said, squeezing her. "Is your mother here?"

"She sent me to find you," she said. "She will come in a little while. She is speaking with Elphir." Lothíriel couldn't shake the little thought that she was always being gotten rid of. But now was not the time to dwell on it. "How are you?" Lothíriel asked again in a moment. "We heard-- we heard such terrible things."

Faramir pulled away enough to look down into her face. Suddenly the youth and warmth that had transformed his face was gone, and he looked old, cold, and tired. "All true," he said softly, and a quick little twist of bitterness went through his face.

"Oh Faramir," she said, and put her head against his shoulder. "Oh Faramir, I am so sorry."

"I know," he answered, and kissed her on the top of her head.

She looked over his shoulder, and the woman was coming hesitantly toward them, looking at them with a touch of bewilderment. She was a beautiful woman, strong of features and stern of face. "You look happy with her," Lothíriel murmured with a soft laugh. "But I think she doesn't know who I am. You had best introduce her." She released him and stepped back, but kept his hand in hers. 

Faramir turned to look at the woman, and his face softened again to see her. "Éowyn," he said, "this is my cousin Lothíriel. Lothíriel, this is Éowyn, sister-daughter to Theoden King."

"The tale of your valor has preceded you," Lothíriel said, and bowed to her. Éowyn sized her up with keen grey eyes that reminded her of none so much as her own grandmother's piercing gaze. 

"My valor is not so great as that of many," she said, but Lothíriel could not distinguish whether she were being gracious or cold. "And I did not act alone. But I am honored."

"Perhaps someday you would oblige us with the full tale," Lothíriel said. "But for now I have been sent to investigate the truth behind the rumor that my cousin is thriving, and indeed I find him in better health and spirits than I could have hoped in my wildest dreams."

"Indeed," Faramir said, and put his arm around the woman's shoulders. She was a little tense, in her body language, but after a moment she softened and her arm went around his waist.

"I see there is much to tell," Lothíriel said, "but little to say." She smiled.

"A good way of putting it," Faramir answered. "But I am sure that will not satisfy your mother."

"Nor my father," Lothíriel answered. "Still, it satisfies me."

 

 

 

In the coming days, Lothíriel was conveniently got rid of again by sending her to the Houses of Healing to keep company with Éowyn while Faramir, Elphir, and Míriel sat together looking serious and forbidding with their heads together in council. Lothíriel was resigned to this, much the youngest of her family and long-practiced at being put to some diverting use while the others did serious things. It wasn't that her mother and father hadn't taught her about running a principality, or that her brothers hadn't taught her sailing and swimming and swordsmanship. She knew what it was they were doing. It was just that there was no place for her there. She and Amrothos were often banished together, when he was about; he often joked that they were completely superfluous. Elphir was the heir and Erchirion the spare, and Amrothos and Lothíriel were simply extra, to be used in political marriages. Amrothos was now useful as a spare lieutenant now that two of his brothers were injured. Lothíriel would have to be put to use in improving family relationships.

So she presented herself to Éowyn that noontime, bringing her food and a bottle of wine. "I bring Faramir's apologies," she said, a little dismayed by Éowyn's cool response to her arrival.

"He told me he wouldn't be here," Éowyn said.

Lothíriel nodded. "He doesn't come every day, does he?" she asked.

"Not every day," Éowyn answered. "But most days."

"I brought a luncheon," Lothíriel said. "Would you care to eat in the garden, or would it be better inside?" 

"The garden would be fine," she answered, a little carelessly. Lothíriel pondered on the wisdom of assuming that two young women of a similar age would immediately become friends, and hefted the basket out onto the lawn. They sat a little awkwardly apart from one another, and ate daintily.

"So," Lothíriel said. "You and Faramir are planning to marry?"

Éowyn regarded her with what might have been suspicion. "I think so," she said. "No plans have firmly been laid. We must obtain my brother's permission. We have simply both expressed a wish for such to take place."

"Is your brother likely to refuse?" Lothíriel asked. She tried to clearly remember the Captain Éomer she had met, so many years ago, but she could come up with little more than blond hair and piercing blue eyes. And a vague memory of white teeth as he laughed. 

"I don't think so," Éowyn answered. "But it is not a matter we had ever discussed. In truth, I have not spoken with him since before the... the final battle, so I know nothing of his mind on peacetime matters. He may have other plans for me."

"That would be a sore blow to Faramir," Lothíriel said with a slight frown. 

"I doubt Éomer would cross me again," Éowyn said with a shrug. "He knows he would regret it."

"I must confess," Lothíriel said, "I remember little of your brother. I was only a child when I met him. He seemed to me to be quite easygoing and to have a good sense of humor. But that was only my impression of him, when I was a child."

"He has not mentioned having met you," Éowyn said, regarding her with a flash of puzzlement. "But then," she went on, a bit more dismissive, "he had no real reason to mention you, I would imagine."

"No," Lothíriel said. "I was quite a little girl at the time, no more than eleven or so. But he treated me well."

"Éomer has always been good with children," Éowyn said, in a voice that was unaccountably frosty.

"So I gathered," Lothíriel answered, wondering at Éowyn's coldness. Was she angry with Faramir? Or was she truly this hostile to strangers? Or perhaps, was there something in Lothíriel's manner that was particularly repulsive to Éowyn?

"Children and animals," Éowyn went on. "And soldiers. He will be an excellent King of Rohan."

"I notice you did not include women in that list," Lothíriel said.

"No," Éowyn answered. "He is not good with women. He is forever sending them off to mind the children when he is too busy."

Lothíriel nodded. "Or to busy themselves in social intrigue while he does the important business of running the country?" 

The look Éowyn turned upon Lothíriel could have frozen hot water. "What are you implying?" Éowyn asked.

"I am implying that to a degree all men are like that," Lothíriel answered, "and most women. I am not without an education in politics, and I know more of the customs of the realm than many of its lords, but I am sent with a picnic basket to make nice with a probable future in-law while the rest put their heads together and frown solemnly over the reports from the fiefdoms. There is a king to crown, they say, and send me off to spend an afternoon in the sunshine."

Éowyn looked down at the sling that held her arm. "I," she began, but did not continue.

"I will now change the subject," Lothíriel said, "to something about which we are expected to speak. Did that hurt, when your arm was broken?"

"Not as much as the other one," Éowyn answered a little absently. She looked up into Lothíriel's face after a moment. "Is there no escape?" she asked, a little quieter. 

Lothíriel shrugged. "I am determined to marry late," she said, "and to retain the power I was born to. Woe betide the man who thinks he needs to find something useful for me to do. I always have useful things to do." She pulled out the bottle of wine, and there was a notebook of sewn leaves of paper beneath it. She pulled out a metal pen and ink.  

Éowyn, unexpectedly, laughed. "And what useful thing do you have to do today?" she asked.

"I was thinking of what will be required of my family if Faramir is to marry," she said. "I know nothing of the customs of your folk, and I know we can make no definite plans until your brother's answer is known. But I thought it wouldn't hurt to begin to search for the things we will need."

"What will be required of your family?" Éowyn asked.

"A great deal," Lothíriel answered somberly. "We are all the kin left to Faramir now. My father will have to act as his father, my brothers as his brothers, and I will have to act as his sister. Which means I will have to interact closely with you. Have you any sisters?"

"No," Éowyn said, a bit bemused.

"Have you any close female kin?" Lothíriel asked. "Any that could act as sisters?"

"No," Éowyn answered.

"Hm," Lothíriel said. "Well."

"Nothing can be done," Éowyn went on, "until my brother is crowned king. He is simply acting now, but my uncle must be buried and the funeral rites must be performed before Éomer can be the proper King. And only then can he give me away in marriage."

Lothíriel nodded. "Well," she said, "who is preparing for his coronation?"

"As of now," Éowyn said, "no-one. As far as I know, there is no one in Meduseld."

"Meduseld," Lothíriel said.

"The King's Hall," Éowyn answered. "At Edoras."

"Oh yes." Lothíriel looked thoughtful. "There is more to this than I had thought," she said.

"Yes," Éowyn said, and looked thoughtfully down at the food forgotten in her hand. "Yes, there is."

 

 

The sun was sinking westward by the time they gathered up their lunch basket and put away Lothíriel's little book. They had gone through, on Éowyn's memory, all the tasks that would need to be performed to make ready the Meduseld for the ceremonies. They had sketched out all the rites that would need to be performed in the funeral, and had made short lists of those still living who could fill the ceremonial roles. They had drawn up an overview of Gondorian marriage customs and had filled in tentative dates for when the various parts would take place. They had made more short lists of those still living who would fill the various roles in that ceremony. And then Éowyn had done the same for the Rohirric marriage customs, lingering for a long moment over who would stand in for her father.

"I always imagined it would be my uncle," she said at last, and a tear had dropped, but that was all she showed then of her grief. It had become plain to Lothíriel that the new King was the only kin Éowyn had left, besides a small handful of paternal cousins of varying removes. Many of the ceremonial roles would have to be filled by friends. And there were no noble women left, of Éowyn's family. 

Now, as they packed up the basket and made their way indoors before the light failed, Lothíriel hesitated, but gathered her resolve and asked Éowyn. "You have no women, in your family," she said.

"No," Éowyn said. "Only me."

"Was that… lonely?" Lothíriel thought of her own childhood, surrounded by boys, but at least there had been her mother, to explain what was happening when her body changed. 

"Not lonely," Éowyn said. "But… Well, I suppose it is a kind of loneliness." She looked at Lothíriel. "You have only brothers."

"Yes," Lothíriel said. "I was desperately lonely for a girl to play with. I had a few friends, that were sometimes about, but they were never as close as my brothers. I longed desperately for a sister, but I was the last child." She shrugged. "At least I had my mother."

Éowyn nodded. "I often wish I could have spoken to my mother," she said softly. "Of course I missed her when I was a little girl, but when I became a woman, I missed her more than I can say. And to hear how much like me she was only makes it harder. I don't…" She shrugged, and stopped speaking for a moment as they went in the door and were met by the matron, who fussed a little over Éowyn and then left them alone. Lothíriel stood awkwardly with the basket. 

"Did you want to come to dinner?" Lothíriel asked with a shy laugh. "It is nearly time. My family would welcome you."

"And would ask prying questions," Éowyn said, and Lothíriel knew her well enough by now to see the dread in her eyes and recognize the cold expression as a mask.

"My mother would, yes," Lothíriel sighed. "They would not be rude, of course. We would invite Faramir as well."

"Let us ask him first," Éowyn said. "He had said perhaps he would dine with me tonight. He may come here, and in that case you could stay here with us."

Lothíriel looked thoughtful. "Yes," she said, "I like that idea better."

And so it was that they sat in Éowyn's chambers through the evening until it was time for dinner. Éowyn spoke a little more of her mother. 

"The sword I used to kill the, the black captain," she said, and gestured to the corner of the room. On a little table sat the hilt of a sword, the blade rusted away or broken just below the hilt. "That was my mother's."

"Is it common for women to be warriors, in Rohan?" Lothíriel asked, curious.

Éowyn shook her head. "Not very," she said. "It was more common in the old days, long long ago, when we were a more wandering people, I think. They are common enough in the old tales, the women who took arms to defend themselves while the men went away. But since we came here, and became more like Gondor, there have been few shieldmaidens. Theodwyn my mother was a great swordswoman, a champion among the swordsmen of the Mark, and that was a rare thing indeed in her day. I believe she was the only shieldmaiden of her generation. There are only a few now, but those that are were inspired by her." She looked thoughtful. "I shall have to give it up," she said in a moment. "A married woman cannot be a shieldmaiden." She looked at Lothíriel, and in the fading light she looked sad.

"Your mother gave up the sword when she married?" Lothíriel asked.

Éowyn nodded. "For the most part. She would… I don't remember it well, but she and my father used to fence one another, for fun. He was a great swordsman, of tremendous renown, greater even than Theodwyn. Eomund was a great hero. The old folk of the Eastfold still talk of him. But Éomer remembers, when we were little, our father and our mother used to fence in the practice yard at Aldburg, and sometimes she would win."

 

When Faramir arrived they broke off their conversation and made much of making him comfortable. True to his characteristic form he was aware of every courtesy and grateful for it, and much of the coldness in Éowyn's face, the reserve she wore as a shield, melted away until she was just a pretty young woman with a handsome suitor. Lothíriel smiled, to watch them together, and made excuses to leave the room now and then to fetch things so that she could see them compose themselves when she returned. 

But when she offered to leave, to walk herself home when dinner was done, Faramir refused, and insisted on walking her home. He would not stay. Lothíriel caught Éowyn's eye and Éowyn was unsurprised; this was his custom, Lothíriel surmised. Ever honorable, her cousin. 

She spoke quietly with Faramir as they walked the short distance home (Faramir was staying with them until the rest of the family returned). Faramir told her of how they had met, and how they had courted, and Lothíriel in turn asked if he had known that it was Theodwyn's sword that had killed the Witch-King. 

Faramir hadn't known.

 

It became an immediate custom for Lothíriel and Éowyn to spend their days together. While the others discussed the heavy work of rebuilding, the two young women made plans for healing. New buildings needed new folk to people them. New folk needed their kings, needed their ceremonies, needed their house-blessings, needed their details seen to. 

And this was their place, now, the young women: seeing to the details that would make the rebuilding effective. 

 

"I care not the slightest bit," Éowyn said lazily, trying with her bare toes to catch a loose thread of the canopy of Lothíriel's bed.

"Not even the tiniest little tiny bit of a tiny bit?" Lothíriel asked, her chin in her hands as she stared at the sketch she'd been drawing on the paper. 

"No," Éowyn said. She was having difficulty coordinating her leg, up in the air as it was, and she squinted one-eyed at the thread, trying to gauge how best to reach it. 

Lothíriel rolled over onto her side, sticking her pen back into the inkwell and propping her chin up again on one of her hands. Idly, she began to play with Éowyn's loose hair, spread over the bed as Éowyn lay on her back with one foot in the air. "A girl is supposed to care about these things," Lothíriel said.

"I could wear a sack," Éowyn said, gesturing extravagantly with one hand. "I wouldn't mind."

"Yes you would," Lothíriel said.

"Wouldn't," Éowyn answered. 

It was raining. They had planned on going for a walk around the sixth circle, and on going down to the markets to see who had returned, and on any number of things, just to get away from their ceaseless planning and organizing for just a little while. But the weather was uncooperative. 

"You would so," Lothíriel answered. 

Éowyn sat up abruptly, her hair tugging away from Lothíriel's idle fingers. "Ow!" Éowyn said, putting her hand to her head. "I would not."

Lothíriel laughed. "Perhaps not at the time," Lothíriel said. "But years later, when the courtiers were still gossiping about it, and much of the glamour had worn off, and you had seen several of your friends married in stunning, glittering dresses, you would mind that you had only worn a sack for your own wedding. You would feel cheated and you would be tired of being singled out in gossip."

Éowyn shook her hair out of her eyes and regarded Lothíriel wearily. "There you go again demonstrating common sense when I'm trying to be romantic," she said peevishly, but Lothíriel knew her well enough now to know she wasn't really annoyed. 

"Don't be romantic," Lothíriel said. "It doesn't really suit you. So you're having a proper wedding outfit and that is that. You and I can both be secure in the knowledge that you don't care and that Faramir doesn't care, but those watching the wedding do. After all, the same goes for the wedding itself-- you don't need it, and he doesn't need it. It's for your families and for your people. So let's just accept that we need to go to all this trouble, and have done with it, and do it _properly_ , shall we?"

Éowyn grumbled, and lay back down, pulling her hair carelessly out from under her back and spreading it back across the bed. Lothíriel began to play with it again, and Éowyn rolled onto her side to look at her. 

"You always wear your hair down," Lothíriel said. "I like it."

"I wear my hair down because my arm is broken," Éowyn answered. "I can't braid it."

Lothíriel laughed. "Oh," she said. "I thought it was healed."

"Not entirely," Éowyn said. "It is still weak, and I have not the hand strength yet to braid hair this long."

 "Well, yes, I suppose there is that," Lothíriel conceded. "Don't you have anyone who could attend you and do your hair for you?"

"I left them in Dunharrow," Éowyn answered, and she was looking at her hands. "And I never had many people to attend me. Just the housekeeper." She laughed. "You know who taught me to do my hair in the first place?"

"Who?" Lothíriel asked, twirling the dark gold hair around her fingers. The hair was different colors in different layers, a whole spectrum of different shades of gold. The hair that grew just at the nape of her neck was dark, bronze-like. The hair that grew at her forehead was nearly white. The hair that grew from just above her ears was almost coppery. And at the back of her head it was bright gold like jewelry. Lothíriel supposed it would be stunning in a braid, with all the different colors mixed together.

"Theodred," Éowyn answered. Seeing Lothíriel's look of incomprehension, she sighed. "My cousin," she went on. "My mother raised him, you know. Before she was married, even, she cared for him, because his mother died when he was born. And so he was always by, when I was a child, and my mother taught him how to do my hair before I was old enough to do it myself. And so it was he who taught me when I grew old enough."

Lothíriel laughed softly. "I let Amrothos do my hair once," she said, "but only once." But she noticed that Éowyn had tears on her face again, and wordlessly she sat up and pulled Éowyn into an embrace. "It is all right," she murmured softly.

"Theodred," Éowyn whispered, shaking with a suppressed sob. "He never had a proper funeral. We have never mourned him. They put him into a mound and left him there and I don't even know if the Fords were captured afterward."

"Oh," Lothíriel said, catching up. Theoden's son. The only cousin of any significant closeness. Éowyn had mentioned his loss, but not in any real detail. "Oh, Éowyn, let us add some rites for him into the ceremony. Your brother would agree, would he not?"

Éowyn shook, but collected herself, wiping her tears on her hand and leaning against Lothíriel's shoulder. "Éomer loved Theodred more than he loved anyone in the world," she whispered. "We have not-- it is he and I who need most to go and mourn him, and we have not done so."

"You can go when you return home," Lothíriel said soothingly. "Your cousin will understand."

Éowyn nodded, and sniffled, and stayed still in Lothíriel's embrace. Lothíriel stroked her hair soothingly, thinking of Boromir, and they clung to one another. "We have both lost a cousin and an uncle," Lothíriel said after a long moment.

"On the same days," Éowyn whispered.

"Truly?" Lothíriel mulled over that thought.

"Boromir was slain the same day Theodred fell at the Fords," Éowyn said. "Such was the tidings brought to us. And the lord Steward was… died… at almost the same time as my uncle the King."

Lothíriel was silent, thinking on that. "Does that make us sisters in grief, then?" Lothíriel asked.

Éowyn laughed, a muffled sound. "I suppose it is some sort of a connection," she answered. She raised her head. "I suppose…" she said, and looked into Lothíriel's face. Their eyes were the same grey, Lothíriel thought, recognizing the color.

"Yes," Lothíriel said. She kissed Éowyn on the cheek. "Then it is settled. We are sisters after all."

"Good," Éowyn said. She lay down, and Lothíriel lay beside her, and they listened for a time to the rain on the roof.

"Come with me to Edoras," Éowyn said, when Lothíriel was nearly asleep from the sound of the rain.

"When?" Lothíriel asked.

"When my brother comes back," she said. "I imagine after the King is crowned, my brother and I will return to our country to put all into order. I cannot imagine trying to do it without you."

"Of course I will come," Lothíriel answered. "My mother might take some persuading but I am sure my father will see immediately that I must go."

"Good," Éowyn said, and put her arm around Lothíriel. 

 

A knock on the door woke them both some time later, and Lothíriel yawned. "Who is it?" she called, not sitting up. She rubbed her face, and Éowyn yawned.

"Faramir," came the answer, as he opened the door. He laughed, seeing them. "Were you asleep? You lazy lumps!"

"We have done the work we could today," Lothíriel said, on a yawn. "But the rain kept us from the rest of our errands. We have saved our strength, for you."

"Oh good," Faramir said, and laughed at them. He came and sat at the end of the bed, and took one of Éowyn's bare feet into his lap. Éowyn giggled sleepily.

"Don't tickle me," she protested. Faramir held her feet between his two hands and watched her, his eyes sparkling and his lips curving in a mischievous smile. 

"I wouldn't dream of it," he said, and suddenly she shrieked and flailed as he surreptitiously moved two of his fingers, the others motionless to camouflage them, to ghost over her instep. "What?" he protested. "What?"

Éowyn flailed, finally freeing her foot, and Lothíriel came to her defense, pouncing on her cousin and grabbing him around the shoulders, pinning his arms to his sides. "Sit on his legs," she directed. "There, his ribs, at the sides-- get him there."

Faramir laughed and struggled, though he had no real incentive to escape, as Éowyn was sitting on his legs but merely menacing him with crooked fingers, not touching him at all. "Perhaps I should not have been glad when you said you were saving your strength for me," he wheezed, writhing. Lothíriel knew he was only playing. She was thoroughly experienced at wrestling with men, and knew they were stronger than she. Especially Faramir, who was wiry, and so much stronger than he looked. If he wanted to be away, he would be away. Which wasn't fair, but was the way of the world.

"Perhaps," Éowyn said, and giggled, finally digging her fingers into his ribs to tickle him. He shouted with laughter, and writhed, and got an arm free to catch at her hands. Lothíriel ducked her head to avoid the loose, flailing limbs, and suddenly all was still. She raised her head with some surprise, and realized that Éowyn and Faramir's mouths had connected. Both were now engrossed in kissing, and Lothíriel sighed and put her head on Faramir's shoulder.

"Ugh," she said, resigned, "that's--" Éowyn put out her hand and took Lothíriel's face with it, and pulled her closer.

"Sorry," she said, releasing Faramir's mouth, and turned to kiss Lothíriel's mouth instead. Lothíriel, shocked, returned the kiss, and it was only after a moment that she opened her eyes and noticed that her cousin was sitting between them absolutely dumbfounded. Éowyn opened her eyes, too, and looked at him, and giggled.

"Now who's jealous?" she said, pulling slowly away from Lothíriel. Lothíriel laughed, blushing, and covered her mouth with her hands.

"Jealous isn't the word," Faramir said, his stare a little blank and wide-eyed. He was chewing absently on his lower lip. "I don't know what is, but jealous isn't it."

Lothíriel laughed, embarrassed, and sat subdued and blushing at the foot of the bed for the rest of the conversation, which she didn't really hear.

 

 

 

"Psst." Lothíriel woke, looking groggily around the dim room. The door was open a crack.

"What is it?" she murmured, rubbing at her face. "Is it morning?"

A figure slid through the door and closed it, and crossed the room with a whisper of the fabric of a full skirt. "Yes." It was Éowyn's whisper. "I wanted to get started on today."

"Of course," Lothíriel said, and yawned. The bed sank under Éowyn's weight as she climbed onto it. "Good morning." Lothíriel could see her now, in the light coming through the curtains. Éowyn's lovely heart-shaped face was alive with mischief, her eyes dancing with some private amusement. Before Lothíriel could comment on it, Éowyn leaned over and put her mouth on Lothíriel's, and kissed her hesitantly. Lothíriel's lips trembled and parted as Éowyn's tongue fluttered delicately between them.

Éowyn's mouth tasted sweet, and Lothíriel could taste the tea she had been drinking. She submitted wonderingly to the odd sensation of Éowyn's exploring tongue running along the edges of her teeth and tickling the insides of her lips. 

When at last Éowyn's mouth parted contact with her own, Lothíriel took a shaky breath. "Éowyn," she whispered.

"I don't know," Éowyn answered before she could go on. "I don't know why I did it yesterday, and I don't know why I did that now, but I kept thinking of it all night. I am sorry, Lothíriel, but I know you felt it too."

"I-- I never-- kissed anybody before," Lothíriel said, light-headed, her face burning. 

"I'm sorry," Éowyn said, and pulled away, standing up abruptly. Lothíriel lunged forward to catch her by the arm. 

"No," she said, "wait," and Éowyn turned back to her. "Stay," she whispered. "I didn't mean--" 

Éowyn sank back down onto the bed, and Lothíriel lay back, pulling gently on her arm. Éowyn lay down beside her, her shoes making a soft sound as she kicked them off onto the floor. They lay facing one another, Lothíriel's hand still around Éowyn's arm, her other hand lying curled near her face. Éowyn moved to take that hand in hers, and looked into Lothíriel's face. 

"Aren't you curious?" Éowyn asked.

"I don't think I understand," Lothíriel answered carefully, her breath coming faster as Éowyn's fingers caressed hers.

"I don't either," Éowyn said. "I hadn't-- I don't know what to make of you, Lothíriel, but you fascinate me."

"I thought you loved my cousin," Lothíriel said, her voice very small as she looked at her hand, unable to maintain eye contact. 

"I do," Éowyn whispered. "Lothíriel, I… I spoke to him, and I told him, I--" She paused, and Lothíriel looked at her, pulling their conjoined hands closer to her face and kissing Éowyn's fingers. Éowyn giggled very softly, a low vibration of breath, and bit her lip in a coy smile. "I, when he touches me I feel light-headed. When you touch me all of a sudden, I feel-- it's not the same, but it's similar. And I spoke to him about it, because I don't understand these things, and he told me he didn't think it was any harm if I, well, spoke to you about it."

"Spoke to me," Lothíriel echoed.

"Well," Éowyn said, and she was a little breathless. Lothíriel still had her fingers at her lips and Éowyn apparently found it distracting. "Well. He said something like that. I-- don't tease me."

Lothíriel laughed soundlessly, a breath (she could feel Éowyn's breath from here). "So are you changing your estimation of me from that of a sister?"

Éowyn's breath moved-- a laugh-- and then she moved her face to Lothíriel's, and kissed her again. "I don't know what we are," she murmured, teasing Lothíriel's lips apart with hers. And then dialogue was lost for a time, words were lost entirely, the concept of language fell away and was replaced with the awakening of sensation.

At first it was lips on lips, tongue on tongue, and a sharing of breath-- the wet and warm and living contact of the sensitive membranes one against the other, the heart-pounding thrill of unexpected movement from the other bringing surprising sensual pleasure tingling down the spine into new places. Textures, and tastes: tea, and honey; the indescribable tang of another person's saliva; the little bumps of the tongue's upper surface; the ridges of the top of the mouth; the warm alive unyielding glazed-ceramic of teeth; the slick firmness of gums; the soft pliant integral muscle of lips that is firm beneath exquisite softness. 

To that was added the tingling pressure of hands, caressing. Body parts, once touched, became more than mere mechanical necessities in the construction of the body. Now a waist, a hip, a side, a back, a shoulder, a breast were venerated, shrines to sensation, and Lothíriel moaned very softly and returned the caresses. Éowyn's body was beautiful, perfect: a mirror of Lothíriel's but more, better, fuller, stronger, more visible. Lothíriel trembled at the beauty of this creature, feeling for herself how the ribs curved into the waist flared into the hips tapered to the thighs.

Éowyn's hand found the bare skin of Lothíriel's thigh beneath the hem of her short shift, and a new dimension revealed itself, sharper and more vivid than pressure: texture. Éowyn's hand was callused in places, a strong and long-fingered hand, and moved up Lothíriel's hip and to her waist, bringing with it a tingling shock of pleasure that lingered in the touched skin. 

The touched skin was transformed as her hands passed over it, from a dull and muffled substance to a smooth and polished surface keenly attuned to texture and temperature, tinglingly aware of the touch that had awoken it. She shivered as the shift slid up her body, exposing her to the warm air of the room, and when Éowyn's hand glided over her breast, shocking awake the nipple, Lothíriel gasped at how right it felt, as though it were something she had been waiting for, for years. 

Lothíriel moaned very quietly, and writhed, arching up into Éowyn's cupped hand, tasting her lips and breathing the heady scent of her loose hair that had fallen around their faces. Éowyn sighed, and her hands moved, and in a moment the shift came up over Lothíriel's head. She pushed herself up to allow the fabric to be pulled free of her body, and lay back, entirely naked, looking up at Éowyn as the other looked down at her.

Éowyn sat up, her hair disheveled, and looked down at Lothíriel, pulling her hand back and holding the removed shift in her lap as she gazed down. Her eyes traveled all the lines of Lothíriel's body, and Lothíriel found herself self-conscious in a different way than she had expected: she wanted to be looked at, wanted to be touched, and was so painfully aware of it that she shivered, her desire almost making the gaze into a touch so that she tingled as it swept over her.

Lothíriel thought she ought to say something, ought to speak: this was a strange circumstance to find herself in, and surely it warranted words. But she could think of none, and before the impulse of speech had gone far enough for her to rediscover language, Éowyn leaned forward over her and began to touch her with her mouth. Lothíriel gasped as Éowyn's mouth trailed from her shoulder to her breast. Her nipple was between Éowyn's lips and she writhed, astonished as the feeling shot through her entire body. 

Éowyn laughed, an unexpected sound, and Lothíriel looked dazedly up into her face, helpless with her need to be touched. "You're such a precious thing," Éowyn said, and Lothíriel reached up an unsteady hand to touch Éowyn's face, to pull her down to kiss her. Éowyn's injured arm could no longer bear her weight, and so she let herself down until she was lying squarely on top of Lothíriel, covering her body. Lothíriel, suddenly daring, moved her hand down from Éowyn's face to the laces that held her bodice in place. After some work, Éowyn wriggled out of the bodice without getting up. She was a slender woman, but muscular, heavier than Lothíriel, and her weight as she moved was heavy, almost crushing Lothíriel. It excited Lothíriel, and it was more than the pressure that made her breath come short. 

Éowyn's overskirt followed the bodice to the floor, and soon Lothíriel had found the hem of her shift and was tugging at it. Éowyn's skin was so smooth, so soft, and the muscles of her thighs were solid and heavy, moving under Lothíriel's hand as she adjusted her position to allow the shift to glide up her body and off over her head. There was a little awkwardness untangling it from her arms and hair, and the two women giggled at the ludicrous situation, but once their naked bodies were pressed together, there was no more mirth.

Lothíriel ran her hands wonderingly over Éowyn's strong back, arching her own back to press her body harder against the other. There was a strange beautiful sensual softness where their breasts came together, firm soft flesh yielding to firm soft flesh, and Éowyn delightedly rubbed her chest over Lothíriel's. Éowyn's breasts were larger than Lothíriel's, fuller, and as Éowyn rolled off her to lie on her side, Lothíriel took the breast she could reach into her hand wonderingly, marveling at its heft and the way it moved under her hand as she pressed it. More strange and marvelous was Éowyn's response to her touch: a quiet moan and an arch of her back to deepen the pressure. Lothíriel had never been aware of having that kind of power over another human, to make one respond so intimately to her, and she leaned forward and kissed Éowyn deeply, moved and excited. 

Éowyn moved her hand and brought it down across Lothíriel's belly, slowly. She leaned forward until Lothíriel lay flat on her back, and then subsided, so that she lay flat on her side with her uninjured hand free to roam over Lothíriel's body. She moved it down, caressing Lothíriel's thigh, working her way upward again. 

Finally her fingers were between Lothíriel's thighs, and Lothíriel trembled as she realized that was what she had wanted all along: to be touched there. The other body parts were all in service to the excitement of this part. Éowyn's touch was gentle but sure: she knew what was there, and what needed to be touched. Lothíriel, warned against it by her mother, had touched herself there only very seldom, and would have had no idea what to do to another, but Éowyn's caresses were deft and quick, and in the work of a moment she had made Lothíriel unfold to her entirely, neatly bypassing any awkwardness or shame or uncertainty. 

A jolt of pleasure lanced up Lothíriel's spine and she writhed on a sharp intake of breath. Éowyn's mouth, pressed against hers, curved into a smile, and the jolt repeated several times until Lothíriel's thighs were trembling. "You like that," Éowyn whispered, positively purring, and Lothíriel let her held breath out in a rush that contained a hint of a whimper. "Yes, you do," and Éowyn's tongue slid between Lothíriel's teeth as her fingers slid down deeper, illuminating all the secrets Lothíriel had been keeping from herself. Dimensions of sensation, soft and well-lubricated, opened as Éowyn's strong fingers parted slick, swollen flesh. Lothíriel moaned, her voice on her breath flowing into Éowyn's mouth and returning similar but changed to her own ears on Éowyn's exhalations. 

Lothíriel shivered as Éowyn explored as deeply as she could go. Slowly she built her explorations up into a rhythm of repetitive motion and the sharp jolts of pleasure began to even out into a steady, cumulative thrumming of the most visceral kind of pleasure. Lothíriel felt that she was being lifted on this pleasure, that it was building up into a kind of wave to transport her outside her own body and into an entirely new place. She was gasping for breath, her body seized by a trembling tension that wound tighter and tighter, focusing around the thrumming rhythm of hand and body until she was so sharply focused that she could no longer say what she was so tightly focused on. 

Abruptly it all unraveled, spiraling out in a chaotic release. Lothíriel cried out softly as light exploded behind her eyes and her body convulsed, bucking in bright spasms of ecstatic pleasure: the wave cresting, it seemed to her, and she tumbled with it, her wits scattering as her muscles clamped tightly and she shuddered.

She lay still, throbbing and panting, her mind utterly blank and her body completely limp and relaxed. Éowyn's laugh was soft and throaty, and was her first quiet reminder of where she was, _who_ she was. "Oh Lothíriel," Éowyn whispered, and kissed her.

She returned the kiss, trying to catch her breath. Her blood was all racing through her body, her heart shaking her chest. "Éowyn," she whispered.

 


End file.
